


falling apart to half-time

by AozoraNoShita



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AozoraNoShita/pseuds/AozoraNoShita
Summary: Aaron Burr was meant for someone. And there was someone meant for him.





	falling apart to half-time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashilrak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashilrak/gifts).



> if you've seen this idea floating around on tumblr before you might be able to guess who I am  
> but the prompt fit perfectly!! so! here it is  
> there was so much googling for this guys, but not so much "research" so if you see something wonky lmk

**Crocus: spring, youth**

 

Aaron remembered Alex.

He was sitting on the  masthead and attempting to ignore the yelling from beneath him when it happened. The sudden burst of memories, flashes of color and light like those he saw behind his lids when he closed his eyes, but brought into focus _—_ if not coherency. It was a bit of a jumble, but the sudden knowledge, the clarity, almost made him laugh aloud because _of course_. There was a _reason_ he’d been feeling so disconnected, like this was temporary, like all these people were strangers, like everything was so ephemeral, like he needed to be somewhere else.

He was meant for someone. And there was someone meant for him.

He allowed himself to be talked down from the rigging, allowed his uncle to guide them home with a vice hold on his shoulder, although he was sure he’d be reminded of lights behind his eyes in a different way when they got there.

A delicate purple crocus flower was blooming, solitary, at the side of the road, a sure sign of spring to come. He remembered _—_ the earliest he could remember clearly, though he was sure there was more before that _—_ the crocus flowers in Persepolis, the bright colors and the smell of زعفران and the sound of the setar and tonbak. The king had sent the two of them, not-yet-called-Aaron and later-called-Alexander, along with the _spada_ to Marathon. They’d been near the end of their military careers but they’d been proud, then and later on, after they’d died, to have been a part of it.

Crocus and smilax, he thought, would always end up together.

He just had to wait.

 

* * *

  


**Iris: good news**

 

By the time he was twenty years he was still waiting, and maybe any other twenty-year old would be sick to death of the waiting, but he was not really twenty and if there was anything he’d learned in the past few centuries _—_ it was patience. Not-Alexander would find it funny, he thought, considering Aaron was something of a hothead when they were much, much younger. He recalled being in Paris _—_ he wasn’t sure of the exact year, but it was after Clovis had started parading around that fleur-de-lis symbol so maybe a few years after the turn of the century _—_ he’d almost gotten into a brawl with a market vendor over the price of bacon, and Alexander had been forced to intervene.

Aaron was smiling to himself, peering into the basket of a young girl selling bouquets of irises on the street, when he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

“Pardon me,” came a voice. “Are you Aaron Burr, sir?”

And there was something about the inflection, the tone _—_ like he already knew exactly who Aaron was. Like he’d always known.

Fighting not to let his grin show, he schooled his face into a neutral expression and turned. Not-Alexander was standing there, clothes a bit ragged and ponytail a bit windswept, but seemingly _glowing_ , in Aaron’s eyes. “That depends,” he said slowly. “Who’s asking?”

HIs counterpart’s lips twitched. “Alexander Hamilton, at your service, sir!”

Aaron blinked. _Alexander_. He must be thrilled.

“I have been looking for you!” Alexander announced, stepping in close _—_ probably closer than two people who had just met should be standing, but Aaron couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.

“I was getting nervous,” he muttered, reaching out with one hand and grabbing Alexander’s elbow.

The other man shrugged. “I heard your name at Princeton,” he explained. “I was looking to graduate early, and _—_ well, there was a bit of an altercation with the guy who handles the money—”

“Don’t tell me you punched the bursar? _Again_?”

“Yes! And he deserved it, too. Anyway, how’d _you_ do it? Graduate so fast, I mean?”

“Ah. My parents, before they died…” He trailed off, but Alexander understood him.

“I’m an orphan, too,” he told him, matter-of-fact.

Well, it happened.

“But anyway!” He continued in a sotto voice, “Something’s coming, isn’t it? I recognize the signs—”

He wasn’t really being quiet enough for this conversation. “Can I buy you a drink?” Aaron interrupted, a bit louder than intended, but God forbid someone overhear them talking like this.

Alexander rolled his eyes at the implied warning in Aaron’s tone, but acquiesced agreeably enough. “That’d be nice.”

Aaron started steering them towards the closest pub he knew. They walked with their heads close together, murmuring quietly: _where have you been? Where have_ you _been? An island, Aaron, and you’re not gonna believe the shit I went through — An island, huh, you know I think I nearly sailed away to find you once — Well since you didn’t it’s very lucky I’m so remarkably eloquent for a nineteen-year old! That’s cheating — and wait,_ nineteen?

The pub is a crowded commotion of noise, which makes it easy to stay under the radar and have a covert conversation without looking suspicious, though it turns out to be much harder to keep Alexander’s attention. His gaze keeps getting drawn to the raucous group in the middle, a group of rebels who were at least two sheets to the wind.

“Subtle to the point of formlessness. Mysterious to the point of soundlessness,” Aaron reminded him. Then rephrased. “Talk less. Smile more.”

Alexander scowled. “Seriously?”

“We’ve seen it before.” He shrugged. “Fools who run their mouths oft wind up dead.”

Head tilting, Alexander acknowledged the point, but then he grinned. “We’ve seen it the other way, too, haven’t we?” And he winked.

This was the point where the Laurens kid swanned over, gang in tow, and started badgering him. Which would be fine, any other day, except _today_ he was finally in the same place as his counterpart again, after twenty years _—_ _almost halfway—_ and Aaron was a bit peeved at the interruption.

“A good general is full of caution,” he told them dryly. “You spit, I’ma sit. We’ll see where we land.”

That didn’t discourage them at all. “Have an _opinion_ , Burr,” Laurens groaned.

And then Alexander stood, suddenly. “If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?” he demanded.

Aaron just sat there, taken aback, not quite sure why he’d say something like that, because Alexander _knew_ exactly where Aaron stood. So why —?

He watched Alexander get pulled into proselytizing loudly for the revolution, and tried to shake off the sting.

* * *

  


**Yarrow: courage, love**

 

Some things that Aaron knew, after living so many different lives:

One: he was meant for someone, and someone was meant for him. He and Alexander had been reborn together countless times. Not always in the same place, but always in the same year.

Two: They would always end up in the same place. Even if they were born hundreds of miles apart, they would find a way to each other.

Three: They always died at the same time. Not the exact moment, necessarily, but within the year. And it always happened before they turned fifty. Aaron thought maybe that was because they were both living half of one whole lifetime, two parts of one person in different bodies.

But now, even though they were in the same place again, he rarely saw his other half. The war had come, and they were split apart. Aaron spent an interminable period of time shivering away in the north, with no idea what Alexander was doing on his own. They should have been exchanging letters, or _something_ , he fretted, but somehow even before they’d been separated they had been...separated. Random, chance meetings, fleeting conversations.

Aaron knew they _were_ separate people, he did. But in the past they’d been inseparable. Always together. Brothers in bond if not in blood.

This time was different. He didn’t know why. He wondered if Alexander ever thought about the differences between them _—_ their ages were off by a few years. He wondered if he was ever upset about what he’d had to live through that Aaron had not. If he was upset that Aaron hadn’t come to find him, on the ship all those years ago.

He didn’t voice these thoughts aloud.

Later, talking with Washington: “I admire how you keep firing on the British from a distance. He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.” The general's mouth tightened; people in his position rarely listened to wisdom from someone so much younger, but Aaron wasn’t really younger than him, was he?

That voice from behind him again. “Your Excellency, you wanted to see me?”

Washington’s eyes lit up with interest. “Hamilton! Yes, come in. Have you met Burr?” He asked it as more of a formality, but the answer was —

“ _We keep meeting_.”

They shared a look, an almost smile, but then Washington dismissed him and Aaron had to leave.

Separated again.

He wandered through the camp again, stopping in briefly at the tent set up for the wounded. A medic was using dried yarrow in the bandage of a soldier’s wound. He watched for a moment, and remembered.

Some things that Aaron knew about Alexander, after living so many lives together:

One: He loved the old stories about the Greek and Roman empires. He’d talked about them endlessly, in Gaul and Egypt and even Norégveldi, in so many lifetimes, picking up new information and learning more about them however and whenever he could.

Two: He’d gone by the name Alexander even before it was actually his name. They’d joked, later on, that they’d managed to miss seeing Alexander the Great by one lifetime after they died at Marathon. His was another story that Alexander loved, and so not-Aaron-at-the-time had started calling him Alexander as a nickname, occasionally. A strange name, when his tongue had become accustomed to an entirely different language, but it had always made Alexander laugh. And here he was, actually named Alexander this time. Strange now, to have everyone else call him by the name that only Aaron did before.

Three: He had changed over their lifetimes. While Aaron had become less reckless, more patient, Alexander had gotten more querulous and impulsive. He used to quote Changqing at Aaron all the time, and while Aaron had scoffed then, he’d taken the advice to heart now.

This new lifetime, this new country, suited the new Alexander perfectly. A nation about to be born, so much in flux, an opportunity for his Alexander to be great. Aaron was content to watch, personally; he hadn’t gotten really attached to a place as home since Persepolis.

There was something nostalgic and calming about seeing _herbal militaris_ in use. He remembered Alexander telling him the story of Achilles bringing yarrow with him to heal his soldiers, a trick taught to him by the centaur Chiron. No, this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this flower used for medicine, and not even the first time he’d seen it used on this continent. At Shaugawaumikong they’d inhaled steam from cooking the leaves when they had headaches — he had a clear memory of Alexander sitting across from him, holding a spray of the white flowers and alternating between smiling at him and grimacing in pain.

He thought about it again, later, looking at Alexander’s unsmiling face as they met between Laurens and Lee.

He wondered when Laurens had started calling him Alex.

* * *

  


**Laurel: victory, evergreen**

 

It was 1780 and the middle of the winter and a war, but they were at a ball. Aaron has made the rounds, being charming, avoiding Angelica Schuyler (who is, truly, unlike anyone he’s encountered in his lifetimes), and watching Alexander from a distance as he dances with another sister, Elizabeth.

They’ve both been married before, of course, and had the odd child here and there. Aaron wasn’t sure what was bothering him about the show of courtship this time except, perhaps, that he was watching it from the outside. Before, they’d have talked about it and teased each other about it, known each other’s hopes and fears for the relationship. But in this lifetime, they were just slightly out of step, and Aaron knew nothing of Alexander’s personal thoughts. He was subjected to numerous loud opinions, sure _—_ the same speeches everyone else in the vicinity has to endure from the incessant loudmouth. It was unnerving, to be without him. Lonely.

He loiters in a corner and pretends to admire the decorations: evergreen foliage, mostly, fir boughs and laurel branches, sprigs of holly with red berries.

The laurel leaves in particular remind him of the guìhuā, of drinking infused wine and eating mooncakes with Alexander at the festival of the harvest moon.

Despite his melancholy, he was still invited to the wedding.

He arrived late, not on purpose but more of a lack of trying to be on time. He was perversely irritated about it because he was sure Alexander won’t even have noticed his absence. So it was a bit of a surprise when he was dragged away from the revelers by his flushed counterpart, who was making obscene gestures at a very drunk Laurens over his shoulder.

Aaron had come to say congratulations, at the very least, but Alexander started pestering him about his promotion instead. Aaron felt his irritation rising, because he’d wanted to talk, but not about _this_. About anything, really, but not the thrice-damned war. He was about to write the whole thing off and just leave when Alexander finally, obliquely, asked about something personal — Laurens had apparently made a comment about him seeing someone. It was laughable, really, because Alexander thought he was being subtle _—_ _you should have brought her—_ but Aaron _knew_ him, and he could tell he was really just annoyed he didn’t know.

 _How could you know_? he thought. _You left me alone_.

And then Alexander said, “I will never understand you,” and Aaron stopped listening.

He’d thought they did. They had always understood each other, hadn’t they?

What was so different this time?

“I’ll see you on the other side of the war,” he murmured, and left.

The letter from Theodosia burned in his pocket; he reached up and pulled it out, looking down at it with unseeing eyes.

The world was transient, he knew. Temporary. The only thing he could control was himself. He just didn’t know how to be a whole person, rather than half of one.

* * *

  


**Narcissus: self-esteem**

 

After the war, he held himself apart. Or at least, he tried to.

Alexander, it seemed, could still drive him to the peak of exasperation and honestly it was just _exhausting_ to watch him as he worked to build a new government.

They worked together in court, sometimes, but although they made a superb team _—_ of course they did, with how long they’d known each other — they only ever talked about cases. It was like their previous lifetimes together had never happened. Aaron wasn’t even sure if Alexander was avoiding the subject on purpose. He acted like a distant acquaintance, but not like an estranged brother.

 _You’re separate people_ , he reminded himself, and tried to keep out of the way.

He did end up with another half, of sorts: he married Theodosia. When their daughter is born, she’s different than his children from before. Like everything else about this lifetime, she’s an odd step. He’s moving along, keeping his own time, but then stumbles and in the space of a gasp there’s little Theo. She had gorgeous eyes, her mother’s eyes, and Aaron found himself trying to recall bits of old poetry for her in her crib. He thought of daffodils in Qurṭuba, recited bits about the “eyes of silver with pupils of molten gold,” while his wife laughed at him. She was glad though, he could tell, about his obvious devotion. She had a right to be; Aaron had never really managed to connect with anyone in this lifetime the way that most people seemed to be able to do (the way Alexander seemed to do, so easily), but Theo was different.

Sometimes Alexander would talk about his son, babbling to break Aaron’s barely-polite silence while they worked on witness statements and court paperwork.

Aaron wondered if he actually loved his kid, or just the idea of a legacy, continuing by blood.

He would have felt bad about even thinking it, before, but now he couldn’t quite shake the idea.

Alexander approached him later, asked him to help write essays to defend the Constitution. Aaron wanted nothing to do with it, but was tempted for just a moment by the light in Alexander’s eyes.

It wasn’t worth it. This time, this country, Alexander, they were all just temporary parts of his life.

Best to just wait it out.

* * *

  


**Anemone: forsaken love**

 

After turning him down over the Federalist Papers, Alexander stopped pretending they were strangers. He still never acknowledged their shared history out loud, but his demeanor, his words, became snide and taunting. Aaron had thought before that Alexander had become more hotheaded over their lifetimes, sure. Now, he saw he’d become harder, sharper. Cruel.

“You get nothing if you _wait for it_ ,” he told Aaron. His eyes were shining again, but they were dark. Inscrutable. Again: “If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?”

And he hated that. After all this, why did Alexander insist on calling him _Burr_?

They’d been in sync for so long, but somehow they’d gotten out of step. Aaron had been relegated to the sidelines, stuck on the outside looking in. _I’m meant for something_ , Alexander seemed to be saying, looking down on him with arrogant eyes.

Aaron had thought he’d been meant for someone. He knew better now. And he knew that all of this, this ephemeral world, was nothing more than tricks of the light, flashes behind their eyelids. So they happened to be born into a new country, a place where even orphaned immigrants could make a difference, but that was just fortunate timing _—_ not destiny. They’re not _meant for_ anything. And if Aaron really wanted to, then he could —

He ran for office, and won.

Theo brought him a bunch of windflowers when she hears the news, smiling brightly.

Before they’d burned Fustat to the ground, he remembered Alexander telling him the blossoms were bad luck. A symbol of illness.

He took the the flowers, thought about Hamilton confronting him in the street and saying _I’ve always considered you a friend_ , and goes to find a vase to put them in.

* * *

  


**Hyacinth: sorrow for a wrong committed**

 

Thirty years of disagreements, Hamilton called it, but it was much longer than that, wasn’t it?

He’d watched the man’s fall from grace _—_ suddenly without a position in the government, estranged from his own party, and the sordid affair to boot _—_ and yet somehow, _somehow_ , Hamilton had managed to drag Aaron down with him. Everyone knows he hates Jefferson, and yet somehow he still chose him over Aaron? It was childish and infuriating.

And he refused to apologize.

Letter after letter passed between them because really, Aaron would like to let it go but _this_ was something he could not just move on from. Hamilton didn’t seem too interested in dropping it either; his responses were prolific and condescending and Aaron _hated him_.

So this was what it boiled down to: _I can’t apologize because it’s true_. Amoral, a dangerous disgrace.

Well in that case: _Stand, Alexander_.

Weehawken.

Dawn.

They were staring at each other as flashes of light glinted off of Hamilton’s glasses. Aaron couldn’t actually see his eyes, but the fact that he was wearing the damn glasses _—_ that meant something, right?

This man had poisoned his political pursuits, had mocked him, scorned him, left him alone. Everything he’s done has been for his legacy, and he’d thrown Aaron aside to do it.

So now Aaron was calm. He was ready. He was going to shoot, because he knew Hamilton would shoot, and —

His breath sped up, a sudden thought as the countdown began —

_This man would not make an orphan of his daughter —_

And he knew, he thought he knew, but instead —

 

Alexander threw away his shot.

 

It was a long time before he slept again, but when he did, he remembered Alexander.

They were close to Jaén, on the bank of the river where it was choked with water hyacinths. Alexander had dark hair and dark eyes, and he’d looked up at Aaron and then almost — almost —

 _You should have kissed me_ , dream Alexander said, a trickle of blood at the side of his mouth.

 

Aaron woke up. Alexander was dead.

 

He got drunk and told Theo everything. He told her he didn’t expect to live much longer, because he was going to die before he turned fifty, and Alexander was already dead. This earned him a lot of fussing and concerned looks, but he knew it was true.

Sometimes people in the streets spat at him, cursed him. He knew it wasn’t worth it to try and explain himself. He didn’t have much time left.

Except, he didn’t die.

The Lord in his cruelty gave him exactly what he didn’t want: _time_. He lived another thirty years, lived through a conspiracy and a treason trial, through a wine-soaked trip to Europe, through the death of everyone around him, including Theo. He couldn’t understand why, but sometimes when he was too tired to avoid it the thought came to him that it was because he’d killed Alexander. He was living on borrowed time.

By the time he was eighty he was more than ready to be reborn, to leave this hellish lifetime behind him. He didn’t want to remember Alexander this time, he decided, trying to will his soul into cooperation. He wanted to start over. Please, God, let him start over.

* * *

  


**Aster: remembrance, patience, love**

  


Aaron remembers Alex.

For another four lifetimes, he remembers shooting Alexander.

But he doesn’t see him.

He keeps being reborn in New York City, and it feels like someone, somewhere is trying to tell him something, but he doesn’t know if he wants to hear it.

Every time, he thinks surely this will be the lifetime that Alexander reappears. It never happens, though, and he trembles to think why. Maybe he’d _killed_ him, then and forever, and because Aaron had been the one to pull the trigger _—_ the other half of the same soul _—_ the death was permanent. Other times he thinks maybe Alexander has been reborn, but not cursed with the same memories. Maybe he’s happy somewhere, being someone completely new. Completely whole. Aaron hates that idea, too, but it makes him wonder if he ever forgot a lifetime. He wracks his brain trying to order his scattershot memories into a coherent timeline, but it’s too many years, impossible to recall in clear order. It would make sense, he thinks, if maybe he’d left Alexander alone for one or two lifetimes, without realizing it. Maybe that was why they’d been out of step in the new America. Why Alexander had been so cold.

It’s in the fourth lifetime, he’s nineteen years old, when an old letter is found and quietly published in a historic magazine. Aaron only happens to read it because it’s left on a bench that he sits down on in the park near City Hall. He catches a glimpse of the word _Theodosia_ on the cover, and immediately flips to the article.

The provenance of the letter is unclear, the writer informs him, but signed by one Theodosia Burr, addressed to her father.

Most of it is mundane, day-to-day musings, but the words make Aaron’s eyes blur with tears. There’s a small paragraph at the end that makes his breath catch.

_I’ve been thinking about what you told me a lot recently, about how one could be split in two, and while you know I treasure your wisdom and would never contradict you, I’m afraid I must disagree here. Two teacups are not each half of a whole cup, but rather two individual pieces in a matched set. A whole cannot be treated as one would treat a mere half, and two pieces of a set, while lovely together, can exist separately if need be. I’m not entirely sure where I was going with this metaphor, but let me just close by saying perhaps you should take care of your own teacup before you go worrying about getting its mate back._

Absolutely baffling, the writer muses on the last bit. Teacups?

Aaron laughs, and thinks about wholes, not halves: He sees Alexander with his hopes and dreams laid out in front of him if he would only take the step forward, while Aaron digs his heels in and advises caution. He thinks of Alexander making connections with new people in a way Aaron had forgotten how to do, he sees him trying to push and prod Aaron along with him, begging him to _come with me, please_ but Aaron refusing, Aaron leaving him alone, he sees Alexander’s frustration and sadness and how he is left alone in return. He sees how neither of them ever speak about it.

He looks back and sees anger but not hatred, petty arguments but not spite, he sees not two halves out of step but two people attempting completely different dances.

His first friend, then somehow his enemy —

He wonders if he’ll ever see him again. He thinks, if he did, he'd like to talk to him. Maybe even to kiss him.

He puts down the magazine, pulls out his book, tries to read. Silent tears drop down onto the page, open to an illustration of bright purple aster flower.

 

There was a voice behind him.

 

“ _Pardon me—”_

**Author's Note:**

> Each flower mentioned was chosen because there's a corresponding Greek myth, so here we go by section:
> 
> Crocus: In one version of the story he was in love with a nymph, who rejected him. He asked the gods to turn him into someone she would love, so they made him into a crocus flower. Sure enough, she loved the flower, and then they made her into a smilax flower so they would be together.  
> +زعفران is saffron, which you get from crocus flowers  
> +setar and tonbak are traditional Persian instruments (strings and a drum)  
> +spada is the professional Achaemenid army  
> +Aaron is remembering being part of the Achaemenid empire under Darius I
> 
> Iris: Winged messenger goddess of the rainbow  
> +Clovis I, king of the Franks, started using the fleur-de-lis symbol after his baptism (it is based on an iris, despite the name)  
> +Aaron is quoting Sun Tzu
> 
> Yarrow: Scientific name is actually Achillea millefolium because of that Achilles story.  
> +Aaron quote Sun Tzu again  
> +Norégveldi is Old Norse for the kingdom of Norway  
> +Changqing is the courtesy name used by Sun Tzu  
> +Herbal militaris is an old-fashioned name for yarrow  
> +Shaugawaumikong was an Ojibwe settlement up near Canada
> 
> Laurel: Apollo mocked Cupid, who shot him with a golden love arrow while shooting the nymph Daphne with a lead hate arrow (?). He chased her until she asked her father to turn her into a laurel tree rather than be with him. Apollo made her evergreen and used her leaves in a crown as his symbol.  
> +Guìhuā is an evergreen tree in China similar to a laurel, used for infused wines and pastries commonly found at the Harvest Moon Festival
> 
> Narcissus (daffodil): Rejected the nymph Echo, proceeded to fall in love with his reflection and die wasting away next to it. Versions vary but somehow a flower grew where he died (possibly from Echo's tears).  
> +Qurṭuba is Cordoba, under caliphate rule.  
> +Spain has a shit ton of daffodils.  
> +Aaron quotes Abu Nuwas, who is talking about daffodils. Apparently they're pretty common in Islamic poetry and referred to as similar to eyes.
> 
> Anemone: The flower that bloomed where Aphrodite weeped over the body of Adonis when he was killed.  
> +Windflowers is another name for anemone.  
> +Fustat was a previous Egyptian capital, which was burned down deliberately so the crusaders wouldn't get to it. Part of current capital Cairo today.  
> +Apparently, although there's only one source on this so don't quote me, these flowers are considered bad omens in Egypt and East Asia, possibly because the coloring is reminiscent of illness.
> 
> Hyacinth: The myth is technically about larkspurs but we got the name from Hyacinthus, who was killed by a discus. His lover Apollo used his blood to create the flower, and left bloodstains on the petals that spelled out 'Al! Al!' which is basically 'Alas!' but also short for Alexander so that's fun.  
> +Water hyacinth is native to South America, is found a lot in the Amazon river, and is a highly invasive species.  
> +Jaén is a city and province in Peru, though it's older than the Spanish name for it. Around the region where the Jivaro lived (these guys reportedly fought off an Inca expansion).
> 
> Aster: The goddess Aster looked down from the heavens and weeped over the Earth because it didn't have any stars; flowers bloomed where her tears fell.  
> +The park at City Hall is the former location of the commons that Aaron refers to in "The Schuyler Sisters."
> 
> god I hope this makes sense and I didn't miss anything


End file.
